The Palace in the Slums

there’s a palace in the slums.

every night it holds a feast.
fancy lights up there festooned,
illuminates the sober moon
that has her underneath
a sad and ghastly place—

but the palace in the slums

takes the sadness off its face.

there are songs by the angels.

there is food for the gods.

there are tables for royals

enough for them who never had

time for heavenly songs,

swarming dosh for nutrition,

golden merit for royalty;

the slum knows no profusion.

the palace in the slums

holds a feast for children.

young souls of a land broken

may come inside the festive heaven

and sing the songs of angels,

eat the food of the gods,

sit at royal tables

and watch the lights from up above.

the children of the slums

go in there every night,

inside that palace that stands aloof

from its hostile neighbors of putrid sight.

the palace in the slums

is host for these lovely children

but there is no one around

come the day as the sun awakens.

no one around, too,

every night of jubilant feast.

no one that welcomes

or opens the door at least.

no man has been seen

inside the palace in the slums;

but there is word that in dawn

the children hear a distant hum

of a song by a child

up there in the yellow room

of the palace in the slums—

and the child seems in gloom.

the children bid goodbye

to whoever is inside

that mellow yellow room

of the gloomy humming child.

the gloomy humming child

dreams a dream every night.

in that dream is a palace

festooned by festive lights.

in that dream are sad young souls

making their way inside.

in that dream he lets them be,

lets them enjoy as he watches by

inside his mellow yellow room

in the palace that he made.

he watches them below

until his dream will fade.

as dawn comes near

the child hums a song;

a sad song like his dream

that will never be for long.

his song wakes him up

and the dreamy dream is gone.

he lies on a makeshift bed
alongside children of the slums.